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Suzanne Rindell Books

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Summer Fridays

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“With the slushy gripped in one hand, Sawyer held the hot dog in the other and leaned her head sideways to take a bite. She hadn't had a hot dog in years, perhaps not since the days of running through sprinklers. She was surprised by how it all came back to her instantly-the softness of the bun, the saltiness of the meat, the tang of the mustard. "It tastes like summer," she said, attempting to lick a stray dollop of mustard from the corner of her mouth. Nick smiled. "It's almost like you're a poet or something.”

HumorSummerNostalgia
Book:Summer Fridays
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“With each mile we put behind us, I felt the air grow lighter in my lungs. It was as if the city had been one large pressure cooker, simmering in its own juices. With the top down on the coupe and a stalwart, man-made breeze blowing steadily in my face, I tallied the city's many summertime brutalities: the heat that radiated from the gray asphalt and made the air dance in wavy shimmers; the stagnant ponds in Central Park that turned a milky, putrid, almost phosphorescent green and incubated countless mosquitoes; the blasts of hot dirty air that breathed upward from every subway grate; oh, and how the loud noises pouring from construction sites even somehow seemed to further agitate and heat the air!”

SummerHotNew York City
Book:The Other Typist
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“It's a myth that people who live in cities are naturally more open-minded, more accepting and tolerant of difference. The truth is, whatever people are, be it saints or bigots, they simply are these things, and the city - by smashing all those different kinds of people up against one another - just makes people's tolerance (or lack of it) all that much more pronounced.”

RacismDifferences Between PeopleCity People
Book:Three-Martini Lunch
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“Nick nodded. "My mother said that always surprised her-all the houses made out of wood here, especially in the suburbs. She said growing up in the Soviet Union, it was all concrete and cinder blocks where she lived. Wooden houses were for old Russian fairy tales." Sawyer reflected, mulling. "Have you ever wanted to go there?" "Sure. But growing up, I was always told that's was impossible," he said. "At least for me and my mom, given her political history. But it's strange; there were times when I was super aware that she could never bring me back to where she was from, but other times I felt so completely that I have been there in my mind, I forget that I haven't, even now." "Do you speak Russian?" "Of course. My mom's English is perfectly fine, but we always wind up speaking in Russian together." "Do you ever...dream in Russian?" "I do.”

DiasporaBilingualismImmigrant Parents
Book:Summer Fridays
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